


Wishes

by Nurmengardx



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-15
Updated: 2013-02-24
Packaged: 2017-11-29 07:59:54
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 7,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/684655
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nurmengardx/pseuds/Nurmengardx
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock's birthday ends in disaster and it's a race against time to find the antidote.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Sherlock walked in and stopped immediately to sniff the aromas in the air.  
'Sherlock! You're back early,' he heard John say from the kitchen. He ignored him in favour of the cooking smells.  
'What are you cooking John?' he asked, noting how uncomfortable he was looking.  
'Oh you know, just some chicken, a few potatoes,' he mumbled, Sherlock sniffed again.  
'John that's a whole roast dinner, what are you doing?'  
'Nothing, I just felt like cooking-'  
'John I'm back! I brought the cake you wanted!' said Mrs Hudson as she bustled into the room.  
'Mrs Hudson-'  
'I'm telling you John there must be something going on, everywhere is packed and I nearly didn't get any candles- oh! Sherlock! You're home already!'  
'Yes Mrs Hudson. There are so many people in the city because it's Comic Con this weekend. Now, why would you be needing candles?' Sherlock asked coldly, shooting a glare at John. Mrs Hudson looked between them, mouth opening and closing, trying to decide what to say. John sighed and looked at Sherlock helplessly.  
'Well… Sherlock it's your birthday,' he said at last. Sherlock turned away and groaned.  
'Mycroft!' he turned back and glanced at the oven. 'Who else is coming?'  
'What?'  
'There's enough in there for at least five people John, who else is coming?' he demanded.  
'Well other than us three, just Molly and Mycroft,' he replied.  
'Why?' he groaned.  
'Mycroft invited himself and Molly overheard me on the phone so I invited her along.'  
'Of all the things I could have been doing today and you've got me saddled down with a stupid little birthday party,' he raged. 'Oh and the chicken needs basting, unless you like dry chicken, but I certainly don't.' He stormed off and threw himself aggressively on the sofa, where he sat stonily until Mycroft arrived.  
'On no need to look like that Sherlock, it was my idea. Here this should be sufficient,' he handed Sherlock a small, perfectly wrapped box and sat in the chair opposite. As John and Mrs Hudson bustled around the kitchen, Molly tumbled through the door and blushed at the sight of Sherlock, who rolled his eyes exasperatedly.  
'Uh happy birthday Sherlock,' she said breathlessly, handing him another small box. Sherlock had realised the moment he'd taken hold of Molly's present that it contained a wrist watch and he was just in the process of figuring out what make it was when he heard a clinking in the kitchen.  
'John, don't touch my things!'  
'We're eating at the table Sherlock,' he called back.  
'But my experiments-'  
'I'm sure you can fix them.'  
'John the Yorkshire puddings are burning.' Sherlock smirked in amusement as John ran around the kitchen and served the food.  
'All right everyone, it's ready. Sherlock, bring your presents so you can open them at the table.' Everyone walked over except Sherlock, who stomped, and sat in a chair. Sherlock's phoned bleeped and he sat texting while John poured the gravy.  
'Give me that,' said John, holding out his hand.  
'What?'  
'Give me your phone.'  
'Why?'  
'We're having a nice meal Sherlock, no texting.' Sherlock sighed and put his mobile into his outstretched palm. 'That's better.' He sat down in his own seat and pushed another small box across the table. 'This one's from me,' he smiled.  
'And this one's from me,' said Mrs Hudson, giving him a frilly pink box. Firstly he opened Mycroft's, which turned out to be a new lense for his microscope. Of course he knew it was broken.  
'Thank you,' he said curtly, moving onto Molly's present which was, indeed, a wrist watch. A Citizen Men's Eco-Drive Wrist Watch to be exact. At least it was something practical.  
'Thank you Molly,' he said, a little kinder than he had to Mycroft, and put the watch on, causing Molly to blush and choke on her parsnip. Next was Mrs Hudson's present, and as Sherlock held it in his hands he tried to hide his disgust at the frilly pink paper. He took great pleasure in ripping it all off and what was inside wasn't too bad either. It was a fine quality, indigo tie that matched his scarf.  
'Thank you Mrs Hudson, it's very nice,' he smiled, folding it neatly and replacing it carefully in the box so as not to get any food on it. Lastly was John's present. Sherlock held it carefully in his hand and looked at it before he started delicately peeling the paper back to find a plain black box. Opening it he uttered a short laugh as the box revealed a set of silver cufflinks in the shape of magnifying glasses. He was genuinely pleased with his gift and immediately switched them with his plain silver squares.  
'They're really, very nice John, thank you,' he smiled. John returned the smile warmly and then gestured at the plate in front of him.  
'Come on Sherlock, you haven't eaten any of your dinner yet, it'll get cold,' he said, stuffing some chicken in his mouth. Looking around Sherlock noted that Mrs Hudson and Mycroft had finished off their vegetables and Molly was just about to start her chicken. John was thoroughly enjoying himself as he hadn't had the chance to cook a proper roast dinner since he left for the war. Sherlock tasted the chicken and found it to his liking and dug into the rest of it. Most of the meal comprised of John and Mrs Hudson trying to make awkward conversation with everyone else. This amused Sherlock to no end and he refused to make conversation under the guise of enjoying his food, even if the Yorkshire puddings were too crispy, and the gravy was slightly grainy. Eventually everyone stopped eating and John fidgeted a little before:  
'Would everyone like to go into the living room? Me and Mrs Hudson will make some tea.' Mrs Hudson nodded and Sherlock rolled his eyes, he knew exactly what they were doing and he was not impressed but he went along with it and grudgingly went back to the living room and put his head in his hands, waiting for the inevitable singing of that ridiculous song. John walked slowly into the room with a medium sized cake in his hands. Oh re-lighting candles, very amusing John, he thought sourly.  
'Happy birthday to you!' Mrs Hudson sang, rousing everyone else into song and Sherlock sighed with boredom.  
'Happy birthday to you! Happy birthday dear Sherlock! Happy birthday to you!' they all sang.  
'Make a wish Sherlock,' John grinned.  
'I am not making a wish John,' he frowned.  
'Come on Sherlock, you never know, it might come true,' he said slyly.  
'Wishes are childish games, based on fantasy and superstition. I am not making a wish.'  
'Fine but you still have to blow out the candles.' Sherlock grumbled to himself and blew out the candles, shooting daggers with his eyes at John when they lit themselves again. He just smiled guiltily and gestured for Sherlock to blow them out again. Scowling at the four of them waiting expectantly, he simply pulled them out and threw them in the sink. Mrs Hudson looked scandalised and John tutted and shook his head in mock disappointment, the amused gleam in his eye clear to see.  
'What? They were melting on the cake,' he said defensively, lips twitching in an attempt to stop himself from laughing.  
'Just cut it would you? I have things to be doing, Korea is making something of a nuisance of itself,' Mycroft complained, checking his watch. Sherlock glared at him but cut the cake anyway. It was a beautifully smelling carrot cake, iced in marzipan.  
'Who wants cake?' John offered. 'Mrs Hudson?'  
'Oh no thank you dear, I was never a fan of carrot cake,' she smiled.  
'Molly, Mycroft?'  
'No thanks, I'm on a diet,' they said at the same time, looking at each other and shifting away slightly.  
'Sherlock?' Sherlock merely looked at him. 'All right, more for me then.' He helped himself to a slice of cake and the doorbell rang.  
'I'll get it,' Mrs Hudson said, hurrying to the door.  
'So um, it's Mycroft isn't it?' asked Molly, attempting to make conversation.  
'Yes Molly.'  
'Do you do something in the government?' Sherlock and John rolled their eyes at each other and John cut himself another slice of cake. Sherlock smiled; at least someone was enjoying themselves. Mrs Hudson came back in with a large package.  
'It's for you dear,' she said, handing the package to Sherlock.  
'Oh dear. It seems Mummy still thinks you're five years old Sherlock,' commented Mycroft. Removing the brown parcel paper Sherlock chuckled as he removed the junior chemistry set from the wrappings.  
'Here you are John, use this. You might learn something,' he set it down in front of John, who was still eating cake. After a few minutes of awkward conversation, mostly between Molly and Mrs Hudson, John finally had enough of the cake.  
'Well that's enough cake for me. Who wants a cup of tea?' said John, wrapping the rest of the cake in foil and putting it in the cupboard for later. Mrs Hudson had finally made a breakthrough in the conversation by asking her about her work. John sipped his tea and joined in the conversation, relieving the tension in the atmosphere and leaving Sherlock and Mycroft to watch contentedly. After he finished his cup of tea, Mycroft stood and straightened his suit.  
'I really should be going now,' he said.  
'Yeah, me too,' said Molly.  
'The dinner was very nice John,' he complimented, shaking his hand which felt slightly clammy; he really should stop working himself so hard. 'Thank you for being such a lovely host Mrs Hudson. I hope we can do this again sometime. Happy birthday Sherlock,' he said politely, escorting Molly out of the house with him.  
'Well that was fun,' John commented, while Mrs Hudson went to go and get some more teabags. Sherlock made a face and was just about to go and get his mobile that John had 'confiscated' when he noticed John leaning on the door frame, fanning himself with a magazine.  
'Are you all right?' Sherlock asked him, looking him up and down.  
'Yeah, just a bit hot,' he smiled reassuringly. Sherlock didn't believe him, but he went to his room to play his violin anyway. He spent precisely ten minutes playing it in his room before he set it down carefully and went back downstairs, checking the thermometer on his way, it read fifteen degrees Celsius. When he returned to the living room John was still leaning on the door frame, fanning himself with the magazine, only now he was slumped and Sherlock could see that his breathing was laboured. He ran over to him and held his head in his hands.  
'John! John what's wrong?'  
'Nothing. I'm fine, just a bit hot.'  
'John, it's fifteen degrees in here, you shouldn't be this hot, now tell me what is wrong?' his eyes raked over John's face. His cheeks were flushed but the rest of his face was deathly pale, and all of him was covered in a shiny film of sweat. His pupils were dilated and the skin around his eyes was white and taught. His eyelids drooped and he dropped the magazine.  
'Sherlock… fine,' he murmured, turning away. He tried to go over to the table to clear the dishes but his legs gave way as soon as he left the support of the door frame.  
'Sherlock… what've you done?' he mumbled, speech slurring as Sherlock helped him to his feet.  
'I haven't done anything John, now tell me exactly how you feel,' he ordered. John leant on him heavily and took a deep breath.  
'Hot. Really hot. So tired. Dizzy… can't see,' his eyes rolled back in his head and he went completely limp against Sherlock. Laying him on the sofa he bent over him and opened his eyes gently with his fingers. Pupils still dilated, high temperature, clammy hands, cold sweats. He moved away when he heard Mrs Hudson coming in the door downstairs and called for her.  
'What is it Sherlock?' she called back.  
'I need you Mrs Hudson! Now!' he shouted, sweeping all the dishes from the table to the floor and setting up his microscope on the table. 'Good, take two damp cloths and place one on John's forehead and one on the back of his neck… Now Mrs Hudson!' she flapped about the room while Sherlock aligned his microscope, smacking a hand against the table when he remembered the lense was cracked,  
'Oh he's ever so hot Sherlock,' Mrs Hudson commented.  
'Yes, I know,' he replied, swiftly replacing the cracked lense with the one Mycroft bought him.  
'He's shivering something awful, the poor dear.' Sherlock froze.  
'What?'  
'He's shivering; we should get him a blanket.' Sherlock bolted over to him and pulled off his jumper.  
'Sherlock…'  
'It's ok John, it's all right.  
'You're taking off my clothes… People will talk,' he chuckled weakly.  
'People already talk, now lie still, I need to check your heart.' He pressed his ear against John's chest. His heart was fluttering and he was shivering uncontrollably even though Sherlock could still feel the heat on cheek as he moved away. He came back with a syringe and a swab. 'This may sting a little,' he said, sticking into the first vein he could find to draw blood, also taking a sample of saliva with the swab. He put the samples on separate slides and examined them under the microscope, but what he saw made no sense. A number of different diseases and illnesses flashed through his mind but none of them seemed to fit. 'Mrs Hudson, smell his breath,' he ordered.  
'What? Why?'  
'Just do it!'  
'Cranberries, Sherlock. It smells of cranberries.'  
'No, no, no! This is very bad.'  
'Why, Sherlock?'  
'Because his breath smells of cranberries!' he jumped up and put his hands on his head.  
'But Sherlock, we just had a roast dinner.'  
'But there were no cranberries because Mycroft is allergic! Come on use your brain!' he put his forehead on the table.  
'Well what is it then?' she asked. Sherlock stood up slowly and simply looked at her.  
'Poison Mrs Hudson. It's poison.'


	2. Chapter 2

'Poison!' Mrs Hudson gasped, a hand flying to her chest. 'But why?'

'The question is not why, but how?' Sherlock replied, not taking his eyes off John's shaking form. He pressed his eye back to the microscope and examined John's samples for anything unusual, but finding nothing he could work with. Pulling at his hair he paced agitatedly and between him and John, Mrs Hudson found her heart beating too fast than what was healthy for her age. She watched them both helplessly, changing John's cloths every so often to keep his temperature down, when she saw Sherlock freeze where he stood.

'What is it?' she asked. He said nothing but bolted downstairs, returning with a small envelope.

'I recognise the handwriting,' he mumbled, mostly to himself, examining every memory of handwriting he had. Then he had it. 'Moriarty,' he breathed before ripping open the envelope.

_24 hours._

_Make a wish Sherlock._

_Love Jim_

'Twenty four hours? Twenty four hours until wha-' his eyes fell, once again, on John. 'No,' he whispered.

'What, Sherlock?' Mrs Hudson asked, not entirely sure she wanted to know.

'I have twenty four hours to find the antidote or-' The alternative was too horrible for even Sherlock to contemplate. 'Phone an ambulance. Now, Mrs Hudson!' The best doctors in the world wouldn't be able to save John, Moriarty was too clever, but they could at least buy him some time. Forty eight to sixty hours of time. The paramedics arrived and Sherlock barked orders at them.

'He's been poisoned but do not, under  _any_ circumstances, give him anything, it might make him worse. Keep him hydrated and on every monitor you have. Don't argue with me, just do it! Mrs Hudson, do not take your eyes off him and do not let them give him anything other than a glucose drip. Contact me the second his condition changes. Don't fuss; I'll bring you your things later. And make sure they put him in a private room. We don't want any unwelcome eyes. Thank you, Mrs Hudson, off you go now,' He looked around the room desperately after they screeched away in an ambulance, and a slightly open cupboard caught his eye. He rushed over to it and yanked it open to find his birthday cake. His eyes widened as he unwrapped the foil, careful not to touch it. He sniffed it and detected the faint scent of cranberries. Faint enough that John wouldn't notice. 'Oh that is brilliant,' he said softly, tossing the cake safely in the fireplace. Moriarty must have someone working in the place John got the cake, someone charming enough to convince John to order the carrot cake. He immediately dialled Mrs Hudson.

'Yes, Sherlock?' her tinny voice crackled down the phone.

'Where did you get the cake?'

'Oh Sherlock, does it really matter right now?' she chastised, sirens blaring in the background.

'You know better than to ask stupid questions, now where did you get the cake?'

'That lovely little bakery a few streets over-'

'Thank you.' He hung up.

When Sherlock got to the bakery he caught himself checking his new watch every few minutes, and grimaced at Moriarty's genius. He had planned every aspect of this. The watch, the cake, even manipulated one of the most powerful men in the world without him even knowing. He stopped before the door and studied the front of the building. It was pleasant enough. The walls were painted in pastel colours and the name was printed on the windows in a large, flowery font. It was simply named 'The Bakery'.  _How boring_ , Sherlock thought. He quickly flicked his eyes in through the door to look at the man behind the counter. He was wearing the usual baker's uniform but one glance at his toned biceps told Sherlock that he was one of Moriarty's henchmen, and he would have to be careful. His eyes searched around the building again and a small smirk flickered on his face briefly. He had found a way in. Finding a hidden corner, he put his coat safely out of sight and shimmied his way noiselessly up the old lead drainpipe, and in through the open window above the shop. His steps were quick and silent, like a cat, and he prowled down the stairs, into the kitchen, where he found a sharp blade. Sneaking behind the man at the counter he leapt and brought the knife up to his throat seamlessly, and hissed in his ear.

'Where is he?' But the man merely cackled in delight.

'He said you'd come,' he grinned. 'Left a note.' He indicated at the counter, where an envelope sat innocently with his name on.

'Keep your hands where I can see them,' he snarled. He put his hands flat on the counter and Sherlock grabbed the envelope, ripping it open.

_I thought better of you Sherlock._

_Did you really think I'd be hidden in that run down, old bakery?_

_Think about it._

_Where could I possibly be at this time of day?_

_Love Jim_

Sherlock uttered a deep growl as he attempted to figure out what the letter meant. His eyes travelled to his watch to check how much time he had left.  _Wait. Time?_ He looked at the letter again and brushed his fingers over the writing.  _Ball point pen, good quality, indigo ink, left handed- written personally, slight pressure- was written on a desk._ His fingers lightly danced over the paper and his scowl softened a little as he felt the word 'time' slightly more indented beneath his fingers. If he wasright, and he nearly always was, Moriarty wanted him to trace the origins of his watch. He rushed back to Baker Street, grabbing his coat from the shaded corner he had left it and flung everything out of the cupboards, looking for the watchmaking tools he had acquired some years ago. Examining the watch first, he found that the face was slightly off centre; however the time was perfect, so it must have been mass produced. He thought about Molly's job as he took it apart to look at the mechanism, and decided that she was on an average income, so therefore it must not have been too expensive. The battery came out with ease but with a closer look he found that it would not last very long. So where would Molly think to get a mass produced, cheap watch? Sherlock detested having to put himself in Molly's mind, but there was no other option. How far would Molly travel for a watch? In his mind he saw a map of London, and zoomed in on Molly's flat. He then pinpointed every large store and jeweller within a ten mile radius. He immediately eliminated all of the small jewellers and places that were unlikely to sell such common watches. He then added Molly's budget and came up with one answer.

'Argos!' he spluttered out loud. He grimaced and shook off his distaste, ordering a taxi. The cabbie tried to make conversation with him, which he ignored completely, groaning when he found the street completely packed with people. People who knew his face. He gritted his teeth and got out of the cab, throwing some money back through the window. The response was almost instant.

'It's Sherlock Holmes!' someone shouted. He saw small children pointing and their parents gaping unabashedly. He kept his eyes and ears sharp, but managed to block out any unnecessary noise and powered through the crowds. He got to the entrance and his mobile rang.

'Mrs Hudson,' he said.

'Sherlock! Oh it's terrible,' she sobbed down the phone.

'What? What is it?' he asked, what little colour he had in his face draining away.

'It's John. He's having a fit, the poor dear; they have to hold him down!'

'What!' he yelled.

'A fit, Sherlock-'

'No, no, no! That can't be right!' Sherlock raged. It had only been five hours, three minutes and thirty six seconds. Something must be speeding up the process. 'Describe everything. Actually no! Put a doctor on the phone. Don't argue with me Mrs Hudson! I don't have time!' He waited for the exchange and heard a weary male voice.

'Hello sir, how can I help?'

'I need you to tell me everything. His heart rate, his temperature, how much glucose you're giving him, how long he was fitting for, all of it.'

'I'm afraid I'm not at liberty to disclose that information,' he sighed.

'Why not?' he demanded.

'Information is only given to family sir.'

'He's my husband, does that count?' he growled.

'But he's not wearing a ring.' Sherlock could hear the frown in his voice.

'He took it off too cook, are you people really this simple?'

'Excuse me sir, but I really can't-'

'Just tell me!'

'Why?'

'Because I'm trying to find the antidote!' The doctor sighed.

'I could lose my job for this.'

'I'll make sure you don't.'

'His heart rate is one hundred and forty eight BPM; temperature is thirty eight point three degrees Celsius. We're giving him one hundred milligrams of glucose solution per hour and he was fitting for a total of five minutes and twenty four seconds.' Sherlock rubbed his face with his hand.

'Up the glucose fifty milligrams. Thank you for your help doctor, could you please put Mrs Hudson back on the phone?'

'Sherlock it's me,' she said.

'Mrs Hudson could you please text me whenever John has a fit, followed by how long he was fitting for? Thank you, goodbye.' He hung up and finally walked into the huge Argos showroom and scanned every cashier he could see, eventually spotting the tell-tale signs of a bodyguard on the man hovering over the jewellery counter. He started over to him when suddenly several loud bangs followed by excited shouts filling the room.

'SURPRISE!' The room of staff shouted, showering him with confetti and blowing ridiculous part horns in his face. 'Happy birthday!' they shouted happily. Sherlock ground his teeth for a full hour of congratulations and stupid part noises before he finally ripped a party popper from someone's hand and threw it away.

'Party's over,' he said coldly before finally going over to the jewellery counter, where the bodyguard was polishing the crystal glass surface.

'I'm glad you're here, Mr Holmes,' he said without looking up.

'Where's your… boss?' he asked contemptuously.

'Not here. He left you this,' he said, handing him an envelope with his name on, which he swiftly tore open.

 _Really Sherlock?_  
Did you honestly think I'd be at Argos, of all places?  
Try looking a little closer.

_Love Jim_

He threw the letter back at the man and stalked across the room. This one was obvious. Moriarty was leaving a pattern. Unlike him, but Sherlock didn't have time to debate his motives. He told him to look closer, coupled with the theme of the previous clues obviously meant he wanted him to investigate the lense Mycroft had given him. He strode confidently out of the shop and was checking his watch again when he bumped into a small woman.

'Oh s-sorry,' she stammered. He grunted in return. He had seventeen hours, forty seven minutes and fifty two seconds. The woman tapped on his shoulder.

'Excuse me,' she said timidly. He rolled his eyes and turned to face her. Instead of finding the frightened, slightly awed stare he usually got, he found a confident, steady gaze.

'Mr Holmes. Follow me,' she smiled, waving his house keys that she had pickpocketed from him before his eyes.  _Interesting,_ he thought. She led him down an alleyway and disappeared round a corner. He braced himself, but couldn't have prepared himself for the explosion of screeching a wailing that filled his ears. Feeling his head throbbing he tried to block his ears with his hands, muffling the noise, but excluding anything that might be important, including the footsteps sprinting up behind him. He whirled around, but it was too late to stop the explosion of pain in his forehead as a hard, wooden cricket bat hit him. Spots danced in front of his eyes and all of his senses failed. He sunk to the ground and lost all consciousness


	3. Chapter 3

The first thing Sherlock was aware of was a sharp throbbing in his forehead. He went to press his fingers to his temples, but found his wrists bound by something soft, but tight. Why was that? He slowly cracked his eyes open, only to squeeze them tightly shut again as the bright lights stabbed him in both his eyes. He groaned, angry with himself for being so  _slow_. Peering through his long eyelashes, he waited until his eyes adjusted and opened them to see a giant, digital clock on the wall opposite him that read: 12:29. The haze on his mind wore off slightly and he began taking in everything. Firstly he examined himself.  _Tied to a wooden chair. Dried blood on face- concussion._ He groaned once again once he, eventually, came to the conclusion of a concussion.  _Just what I needed._ Sighing, he went back to work.  _No other obvious injuries. Possible fractured nose, will have to get John to take a look. Wait. John!_ He hissed through his teeth at his own stupidity, how long had he been there for? He struggled against his soft bindings and finally figured out what they were.

'Sheets?' he puzzled out loud.

'Wouldn't want to mark that lovely, smooth skin of yours, now would we Sherlock?' a lilting, Irish accent sounded from behind him, causing him to freeze and his head to throb, his eyes going fuzzy for a moment. 'Lovely day for a chat wouldn't you say? Although I must say, you've been rather…unresponsive,' he leered, slithering up behind him and placing a hand on his shoulder.

'Where's the antidote?'

'Oh you don't waste a minute do you? My kind of man. I must ask though, when was the last time you slept? It must have been a while because you slept like a log,' Moriarty giggled. Sherlock wriggled his wrists slightly and found a weakness in his ties; Moriarty must not have tied them himself.  _Interesting,_ he thought, already hatching a plan.

'How long have I been here?' he asked, shifting almost imperceptibly.

'You see that?' he replied, gesturing towards the digital clock that now read: 12:36. 'That is a clock that has been ticking away the hours that you've been off in the land of Nod for,' he said brightly.

'So that means…'

'That's right, Sherlock. You have been asleep for the last twelve hours and thirty six minutes,' he grinned. 'And you know what else that means? It means that you've got a grand total of five hours and eleven minutes before poor Johnny boy goes beddy byes,' he pouted mockingly.

'Where is the antidote?' he demanded.

'Aw poor, simple Sherlock. As if I would simply just tell you. You're going to have to figure it out on your own, sweet cheeks,' dusting down his neat jacket carefully. Sherlock realised that his current method of questioning wasn't working, so he changed tact in order to buy himself some time. He looked questioningly up at Moriarty, wriggling his wrists slightly and saying:

'Why?'

'Because, Mr I'm-So-Great Holmes, just like you, I get bored. So mind-numbingly bored,' he explained, pacing around Sherlock's chair.

'But why John?'

'Why not John? I needed someone stupid enough to fall for it, and I needed to get your attention, so who better than your little pet blogger?' Moriarty looked incredibly pleased with himself, and the smug look on his face gave Sherlock the incentive he needed to work faster. The bonds were nearly completely loose by now, so now he just needed a distraction. Quickly surveying the room, he found that there were mirrors placed all around the room, with white walls and ceiling. Moriarty didn't seem to notice his eyes flickering and carried on pacing.

'What do you want from me?' Sherlock asked.

'Ah Sherlock. Together we could cause such beautiful chaos. You and I, side by side,' he said, gazing off into the distance. He put his hands on the arms of the chair and leaned into him, to whisper in his ear. Sherlock's mouth twitched slightly. 'What do I want from you Sherlock?' he murmured. 'I want you to join me.' Sherlock's mouth twisted into a snarl and he brought his newly free fist up to strike Moriarty, first in the stomach and then in the nose. He reeled backwards and Sherlock swiftly rose from his chair and wrapped the sheets around his neck.

'You really should tie these yourself, now give me the antidote,' he said, calmer than he felt. He waited for a few moments before he realised that Moriarty was laughing. He tightened the sheets slightly. 'Now, Moriarty,' he demanded.

'Oh please, call me Jim,' he laughed. When Sherlock said nothing, he sighed. 'I don't have it Sherlock.'

'Don't lie,' he hissed.

'No really, I don't have it,' he giggled. 'Could you please wipe my nose? I really don't want to stain this suit, it's a Westwood.'

'Tell me where it is,' he commanded. Moriarty laughed some more, blood flowing from his nose and Sherlock's eyes flicked again to the giant clock. Four hours and fifty seven minutes left, not enough time. He spun Moriarty to face him and promptly swung the wooden chair into his face, knocking him out. Searching his pockets he found a small key with a label and a number on it, a small handgun and Sherlock's phone. He switched it on and found two missed calls and seven texts from Mrs Hudson – _buzz-_ eight texts. He opened the last one and supressed the urge to bite his lip as he read that John had been fitting for ten minutes and the seizures kept getting closer together, his only hope was the key that was now clutched tightly in his hand. He examined it closely.  _Slight scratched, used rarely. Common make._ The label attached had the number 363 printed on it. _Must be a locker number, but where?_ He examined Moriarty again, taking off one shoe and looking closely at the sole. He slid a finger across it and found that it was still wet. Sniffing at it, he smelled traces of chlorine, the smell of multiple pairs of feet and a touch of lavender. And suddenly memories of that night came flashing back. John strapped to explosives, a red light marking out the target for the sniper. He went through it, attempting to block out anything unnecessary, but getting frustrated with himself when images of John kept thundering through his mind, from John covered in red lights to him collapsing in the flat. An unfamiliar feeling rose in his chest and it scared him. He uttered a harsh growl and completely froze his thought process, something he hadn't done for years and risking losing a lot of data, but enabling him to get a grip on himself and start again, this time only looking at the facts. In his mind's eye, he was walking up to the pool, narrowly avoiding stepping on the lavender bush, and preparing himself. He walked in through the front doors and through the changing rooms, past lockers that, upon further inspection of his memory, he realised that the locks were too big for the key. He carried on past those and out to the pool and did his best to ignore the scene in front of him. Walking around the side of the pool, he squinted at the shadows.  _Lockers._  He breathed deeply and tucked the key safely in his jacket pocket, walking away from the unconscious Moriarty and readying his gun, only to find no resistance to his leaving. He got outside and was confronted by the evening rush-hour traffic and, not only was it rush-hour, he was also the opposite side of the city from the pool.

'No!' he shouted, shooting the road sign closest to him, causing several vehicles to swerve in alarm, but he didn't care. It would take hours to get to the other side of the city and he only had four hours and forty two minutes, unless…. He dialled the number for Lestrade.

'Sherlock! Where the bloody hell have you been?' was the first thing he said.

'Around. Can you send a police car to Bath Street, Gravesend?' he asked.

'We just got reports of shots fired there. Please tell me that wasn't-'

'Yes that was me, shot a road sign. Can you send one?'

'Why would you shoot a road sign?' Lestrade groaned.

'It was irritating me, come on! Police car, now!'

'All right, all right! I'm sending one your way now, and Sherlock?'

'What?'

'Do me a favour and phone Mrs Hudson. The closest available unit is fifteen minutes away, so that should be enough time to make a quick call.' He huffed and hung up, sitting on the curb, resignedly waiting for the police car. Although he was loath to do so, Sherlock looked at his phone and called Mrs Hudson.

'Sherlock, thank goodness! I've been trying to get hold of you. Where have you been, what happened?'

'I was busy. Lestrade said to call you, what's going on?' he asked, straight to the point.

'Poor John woke up for a moment, he was in such terrible pain and screaming for you, it was awful. The doctors said to tell you that they had to put him in a coma,' she explained, he could hear the shake in her voice.

'What? Why? Put the doctor back on,' he demanded.

'Hello, how can I help you this time?' the doctor asked politely, if a little reluctantly.

'Why did you induce a come when I expressly told you not to give him anything?' he hissed angrily.

'We scanned his brain and found a swelling that was growing at an alarming rate, so we induced a coma to slow it down,' he explained calmly.

'Oh, no, you've ruined it! I told you not to give him anything and now you've reduced my time by two hours at the most!' he yelled, hanging up. He rubbed his face and waited for the police car and, by the time it got there, he was wound as tight as the watch he kept checking. Two hours and twenty five minutes. He threw himself into the back seat and barked: 'Chorleywood. Go.'

'We're not a taxi service,' the police officer said indignantly.

'Just do it, or Lestrade will hear of how you refused me and a good colleague lost his life,' he said menacingly. The officer rolled his eyes but turned on the sirens and drove off. Even with the sirens it still took an hour and fifty minutes, leaving Sherlock with just thirty five minutes. Slamming the car door, he nearly ran to the pool, past the dishevelled lavender bush, through the changing rooms and out to the poolside, where he was immediately hit by flashbacks. John in that jacket. John collapsing in relief. Himself pointing a gun at the explosives. He mentally shook himself and, once again, supressed the feeling of fear that was clawing its way up his chest. He strode around the pool to the shadows he had seen in his memories and stopped in his tracks, in the middle of drawing out the key from his pocket and stared at locker 363 in disbelief.  _Combination lock._ He needed a four number code to unlock it. Pulling out the key completely he looked at it numbly. No time to find something else. He was wrong. He had lost John. He hadn't been able to save him with all his intelligence or 'humungous ego' as John would put it. If he couldn't save the one person that put up with him, that he  _needed_ , then what good was it? He put his forehead against the locker and didn't attempt to stop the one tear that leaked from the corner of his eye, while he rubbed his finger against the key. Wait. There was something. Moving the key closer to his eyes and his eyes widened. There were numbers engraved on it. Four numbers. 4365. His breath caught in his throat as he entered the four digits, and relief coursed through him when he heard the mechanism unlocking. New and strange feelings burned through him, weakening him at the knees, but he refused to contemplate them until he knew John was safe, so he opened the locker and found a shiny, new briefcase with a message etched onto it. 'Make a wish Sherlock' it read. Finally, he inserted the key confidently and it clicked smoothly open to reveal a small bottle of blue fluid. He picked it up and examined it closely, there was no time to test it.

'What do you think? My own little concoction.' Sherlock whirled around, pulling his gun and hiding the bottles simultaneously.

'How did you get here?' Sherlock asked coldly, eyes raking over his clean, but bruised face.

'Now, now Sherlock. A good magician never reveals his secrets,' Moriarty smirked. 'Look at this, here again. It must be fate.' Sherlock glanced at his watch. Twenty eight minutes.

'Get out of my way,' he growled.

'As you wish, Sherlock,' he grinned wickedly. 'I'll be back for you, don't you worry about that.' And he was gone. Sherlock put the gun away and bolted out of the pool and towards the hospital which, thankfully, wasn't too far away. He ran and ran, and did not stop running, even when his lungs burned and his legs threatened to seize up. The minutes counted down. Twenty three. Nineteen. Fifteen, until eventually he got to the hospital with only two minutes left. His legs, by this point, felt like lead, but he kept on going. Up the stairs, he didn't want to risk the lift, and to John's room. He arrived to find doctors and nurses rushing about and a tearful Mrs Hudson. He didn't even need to ask as he heard the doctor he'd been on the phone to shout:

'He's going into cardiac arrest! Get the defibrillators!' Sherlock's own heart stopped and, although he could barely breathe, he dashed into the room and shoved the bottle into the doctor's hand.

'Give him this,' he said breathlessly.

'But-'

'Now!' He agreed and took the bottle, filling the syringe with the blue fluid and injecting it into John. 'Come on, come on, come on,' Sherlock murmured.

'It's not working, his heart's still failing,' the doctor called Sherlock ran his hands through his hair. It  _can't_ have all been for nothing.  _Think, think, think,_ he thought desperately, frantically spinning around. He spotted Mrs Hudson drinking a cup of tea and images of the day before came flooding into his mind. The cake. John eating the cake. John drinking tea. Something had sped up the process of the poison. Tea.  _Tea. Caffeine!_

'Caffeine! Give him a shot of caffeine!' he shouted. A nurse jumped up and sped away, returning moments later with another syringe, this one filled with caffeine, and stabbing it into John. Sherlock grabbed his hand and squeezed it tightly. 'Don't die, John. Don't die, just don't. That's my wish. I wish for you to live. I wish for you to live, John. Don't leave me. Please.'


	4. Chapter 4

' _That's my wish. I wish for you to live. I wish for you to live, John.'_

' _All right, Sherlock.'_

John couldn't explain it, he was certain that he had been dead by that point, but he heard every word Sherlock had said. He couldn't say it was completely normal, but he was pretty sure it had been what they call a near-death experience. He recalled that many people claimed to have them out in the field. But there was still what Sherlock had said. He had made a wish, something completely impossible for Sherlock to do and he wanted to ask him about it but there was no way he could bring it up, and he knew he never would, so all he could do was worry over their public image, and how much time Sherlock was spending analysing the drop of antidote that was left.

'You told them you were my husband?'

'I needed data.'

'You could have just told them you were my brother or something,' John complained.

'Husband is more believable. Do you have a problem with that?' he challenged, not looking up from his microscope.

'Sherlock, you've been glaring down that microscope for days, give it a rest would you?'

'You know I can't.'

'If Moriarty wanted you to know what was in that antidote, he would have left something for you to find,' he reasoned, heaving himself up off the sofa and making his way toward the kitchen.

'John, sit down, I'll make the tea,' Sherlock mumbled.

'Right, I'll expect a nice hot cup next week, shall I?' John snorted.

'Very funny, however, I expect you won't be laughing soon,' he snapped.

'Oh really, why's that?' he asked, reaching for the teabags.

'Hmm, let's think shall we? You were poisoned and your body went into shock, cultivating in seizures and a swelling on the brain. Then you were put into a coma which sped up the process, causing your internal organs to shut down one by one; finally ending in major heart failure. You're a doctor, what do you think will happen if you push yourself too hard?'

'Yes, I am a doctor, and you know as well as I do that exercise speeds up the healing process. Besides, I'm making tea, it's not exactly pushing myself too hard,' he retorted.

'You're climbing on the kitchen counter!'

'Well you should stop hiding the biscuits!' he exclaimed, grabbing the shortbreads from the top of the cabinet. Sherlock huffed and made some illegible notes on a scrap of paper next to him, while John poured out the milk carefully. 'You want one?' he offered.

'No, thank you,' he replied. John shrugged and turned back to his tea and Sherlock squinted back down his microscope. Why couldn't he find anything? Was there something important about the antidote? Or was it Moriarty just toying with him. He wrestled with his thoughts until he heard the clattering of a teaspoon falling to the floor, and he was immediately by John's side; who was clutching his chest with one hand, while gripping the counter so hard his knuckles turned white with the other.

'I think you'd better sit down,' Sherlock said, holding him up by his elbows.

'Yes. That's a good idea,' whispered John. Sherlock escorted him back to the sofa and sat him down.

'Are you all right?'

'Yes, just a little constriction. I'll be all right,' he said, breathing slowly and deeply.

'Do you get it often?'

'No, no. Just give me a minute ok?' he breathed, rubbing his chest.

'I did tell you-'

'Yes, all right, you don't need to rub it in. Go and get the post will you?' he asked, irritated. Sherlock sniffed haughtily but went to get the post without saying anything. He picked up the lone envelope and stiffened as he recognised the handwriting. Carefully opening the envelope, he swallowed and read the note.

_I'm coming Sherlock_

_Choose your side_

_Love Jim_

He turned on his heel and ran back up the stairs to check on John, to find him on the phone.

'Oh, Sherlock. It's a P.A man. He wants to know if you'll do a press conference on that thing you did with that Reichenbach painting.'


End file.
